


Worlds Collide

by SuePokorny



Series: Sue-Pernatural Season 8 Ficasodes [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:53:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fourth and final ficisode in my Sue-Pernatural season 8.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I

Well, here we are, the final ficisode in my Sue-Pernatural season 8. I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride and I pray this has helped anyone else who just couldn’t fully digest what we saw on screen and needed something to replace it in your memory. Again, these stories were made better by the wonderful input of my incredible beta, Sharlot. Without her encouragement, I probably would’ve just stopped halfway through, but thanks to her, here we are. Without further ado, we continue on with…

Worlds Collide

Act I

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop next to the concrete entranceway and cut the engine. They were miles outside Lenexa, Kansas, the only thing in sight, the industrial looking doorway set into the low hillside.

“Is this it?”

Kevin turned in the backseat, his knees pressing into the leather as he gaped out the back window. Dean turned, throwing an arm across the back of the front seat, and leaned his head around Kevin’s, eyeing the desolate looking entry. 

“These are the coordinates Henry wrote down,” Sam confirmed, dropping his phone onto his lap and leaning to his right to get a look out of the passenger side window.

“Doesn’t look like much.” Dean intoned. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting – one didn’t come across a top-secret archive of supernatural paraphernalia housed in a warded bunker every day – but this plain, forgotten looking doorway, wasn’t it. 

Sam harrumphed in agreement. “Guess we better go see what all the fuss was about, huh?”

Dean shrugged and opened the door, the familiar creek of the old Chevy’s metal loud in the remote silence. He rounded the car to the trunk and grabbed two flashlights from inside, handing one to his brother as Sam and their young charge exited on the passenger side. All three took slow, cautious steps, approaching the entrance to the Men of Letters’ archive.

“You have the key?”

Dean nodded in response to his brother’s question and pulled the small brass box from his pocket. Sliding the intricately carved top back, he reached in and pulled out the old-fashioned skeleton key nestled inside.

“You think there’s anyone home?” Kevin asked.

Dean looked back at his brother, the hunters sharing their nonverbal opinion of the young prophet’s inquiry.

“I doubt it,” Sam answered out loud. “Henry had the only key and, according to him, it was the only way to turn the wards off and on. If anyone was still inside when we pulled Henry and Abaddon into the present, they would’ve either been trapped or been able to leave but not return.”

“You mean we may have to deal with hippie geek ghosts in there?” Dean joked as he approached the door and inserted the key into the lock.

Sam just rolled his eyes. “I think we can handle a couple of ghosts, Dean. But I doubt any of them stayed behind once Henry disappeared into thin air.” He knew his brother was playing down the danger for Kevin’s sake, and he had no problem playing along if only to assure the teenager they could handle whatever they found inside. If any of Henry’s cohorts had remained, the food would’ve run out decades ago. He couldn’t imagine anyone dedicated enough to stay behind and starve to death just to protect a few books and trinkets. Besides, Henry had told them it was the safest place on the planet for Kevin, warded against all kinds of evil – especially demons – so Crowley wouldn’t be able to find him again. Whatever they found inside, it would be worth it simply to give Kevin some much deserved peace of mind.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Dean grinned as he turned the key then stepped back, eyes wide with expectation.

The result was anticlimactic.

There was a series of clicks and the door slid open with a hiss, a musty smell drifting out, carried off immediately by the breeze.

“Well, that was… underwhelming.”

Sam rolled his eyes again and brushed past his brother, snapping on his flashlight as he entered into the darkness of the bunker. Kevin followed with Dean bringing up the rear. They moved down a narrow, dark hallway, emerging into what felt like a large chamber. Sam’s flashlight highlighted a waist high metal railing directly in front of them and he stepped over to it, shining the beam out into the gloom.

“Wow,” Kevin whispered beside him. “This place must be huge.”

The light disappeared into the darkness about thirty yards ahead, highlighting a room with high ceilings and wide, arched openings leading into more darkness. Shining the light straight down, Sam realized they were standing on a balcony. He moved the flashlight, following the railing to a set of stairs bordering each side that led down to the room below. He let the beam trace over outdated equipment lined up against the wall of the main room, recognizing a short wave radio set up and what looked like an old fashioned Hewlett Packard, large bank computer complete with giant input terminal and reel-to-reel tape storage. 

“Dean, check this out.”

“Hold on.” The reply was muffled and Sam turned, seeing the halo of his brother’s flashlight peeking out from behind a large square panel. Dean tinkered for a few moments than grunted, throwing a heavy switch and the overhead lights powered on, replacing the silence with a low hum. 

Sam’s eyes widened as he took in the extent of the bunker.

“Holy shit!”

Huge was an understatement.

The main room below was as big as four of their motel rooms put together. At the far end, low steps led up into another massive room with a sizeable wooden table visible through the large, arched entrance. Sam felt his brother step up beside him, but couldn’t take his eyes from the sight that lay before them.

“Wow,” Dean said quietly. “I think we’ve got ourselves a real live Batcave, Sammy.”

Sam grunted his agreement, his brother’s Batman obsession, for once, oddly accurate. In perfect synchronization, they turned and each descended down a set of stairs to the main room below. Dean ran a hand along the old, derelict equipment, surprised to see there was little dust collected after almost 40 years of sitting idle.

“You think the place comes with a cleaning lady?”

Sam shrugged. 

“Maybe it’s just hermetically sealed or something.” Kevin offered, standing behind Sam. “Or maybe the ventilation system is self-cleaning?”

It was Dean’s turn to shrug. The teenager’s guesses sounded as good as anything he could come up with. There should be layers of dust if the place had been abandoned since 1972. Like Sam, he doubted anyone would’ve hung around, knowing they could never leave and return without the key. He crossed the room, meeting Sam and Kevin at the base of the wide stairs and all three solely ascended into the second room.

“Whoa,” Kevin breathed, his head swiveling to take in everything.

The room was lined with books. From floor to ceiling, wall to wall, books, magazines, tomes… throw in some overpriced coffee, pastries and a few loitering hipsters and it could’ve been a slightly dusty Barnes & Nobles.

“There has to be thousands of books in here.” Sam crossed to one wall, his hand running reverently across a shelf full of ancient looking texts.

“Geek heaven,” Dean agreed. He watched his brother, a grin lifting one corner of his mouth at Sam’s wide-eyed admiration of the library. “Looks like you’ll be busy for the next decade or so.”

Sam threw him a look of agreement, not reacting to his brother’s amused chuckle.

Dean moved toward another tall archway off the far end of the library and peered into the darkness beyond, shining his flashlight down both ways. “Looks like more rooms off this corridor,” he announced. “Why don’t you two see if you can find some kind of map of this place. I’m gonna do a little recon.”

Sam nodded, without turning from the book he was perusing. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said casually.

Dean huffed. “Dude, it’s me!”

………………………………..

Castiel sat rigidly in the small chair watching his companion take sips of a frothy beverage in a tiny cup. The angel frowned as Metatron sighed happily and sat back, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Why are we here?”

Metatron looked at Castiel, waving a hand at their surroundings as if it should be obvious. “There’s no place like Paris to get a really good croissant.” 

They were currently sitting in an outdoor bistro on the Champs-Elysees, ignored by the throngs of people visiting the city’s attractions. Metatron had insisted they go somewhere where they could talk, and Castiel had been surprised to find himself sitting at a small round table, in an uncomfortable chair, in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe. So far, all Metatron had done was order a latte and a pastry and commented on the many tourists roaming the street.

“Metatron…” 

The older angel held up a hand. “Please, call me Clarence,” he said with a wide grin.

Castiel’s expression did not change. “A… friend… used to call me Clarence. I did not understand why. Is it a term of endearment?”

Metatron’s smile faded, his joke falling on deaf ears. “It’s from a movie,” he shrugged. “You don’t get out much do you?”

“I ‘get out’ quite often,” Castiel responded. “I am ‘out’ now.”

Metatron stared at the blue-eyed angel, not sure how to respond. 

“Fine,” he finally acquiesced. “I wanted to talk to you about what your friends are doing.”

“The Winchesters,” Castiel clarified.

“Yes, the Winchesters. The spell they are attempting is very dangerous.”

Castiel nodded. “They are aware.”

“Good,” Meatron took another sip of his latte then pushed it toward the center of the table. “I want to make sure they have everything worked out before they attempt to rid the world of demons. One false step and something terrible could happen.”

Castiel’s head tilted in curiosity. “Such as what?”

“Well, they could die.” Metatron said matter-of-factly. “If they forget an ingredient or use a wrong one, they could turn the spell back onto themselves and blow themselves to Hell.”

“I do not believe they have made a mistake with the ingredients.”

“Good, good.” Meatron nodded his head. “Your prophet must be very wise.”

“He is a seventeen year old honor student.”

“That is rather young, don’t you think?”

Castiel nodded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Perhaps, but Kevin Tran has proven himself capable. Why? Do you believe he is not qualified to read the tablet?”

“Oh no, I’m sure he’s qualified. He is a prophet, is he not?” At Castiel’s nod, he continued, his voice concerned. “But I wrote those tablets, and I know how difficult it is to fully comprehend our Father’s meaning. I just hope he hasn’t missed anything, that’s all.”

“You believe there is something missing for the ritual?”

Metatron shrugged. “You’re convinced they have all the correct ingredients, but there are a few things with the spell itself that are important that I may have… glossed over when writing the tablet.”

Castiel simply stared, waiting patiently for the scribe to elaborate.

“Has your prophet explained about the blood?”

Castiel’s frown deepened. “Blood?”

Oh yes,” Metatron leaned forward, his face composed, but a light twinkling behind his eyes. “There must be six drops of blood from whoever is casting the spell mixed with the six ingredients – a kind of … catalyst, if you will. Without them, the spell is harmless.”

Castiel nodded. “I will inform Dean and Sam of this. I don’t believe Kevin has read this from the tablet.”

Meatron leaned back in his chair. “It would be easy to miss. I had a tendency to be quite… cryptic… while writing. “

Castiel stood. “If you are finished, we should go now.”

“We?”

“Yes,” Castiel pointed to the almost empty cup on the table. “If you are done with your beverage. We must inform the Winchesters of this development.”

Meatron fidgeted in his seat, but made no attempt to rise. “Why don’t you inform them, Castiel. I… I don’t really get involved with humans.”

Castiel’s eyes narrowed as he studied the scribe, finally nodding and disappearing from view. 

Metatron sighed and picked up his cup, leaning his elbows on the table as he sipped. “Besides, I’m sure you can be much more convincing, my friend.”

……………………………

Dean entered the library, clapping his hands together in glee. “We have a real kitchen, dude. There’s no food in it, but once we stock up, no more take-out. We can actually cook!”

Sam looked up from the thick book he was reading, his brow creased in confusion. “Since when do you cook?” 

Dean looked insulted. “I can cook,” he insisted. “How do you think you became a giant? It wasn’t because of that rabbit food you’re always eating.”

Sam huffed a laugh and returned his attention to the book lying open on the table before him. “It wasn’t because you knew how to warm up SpaghettiOs either.”

“It wasn’t because you knew how to warm up SpaghettiOs either,” Dean mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “Just see if I make you any gastrointestinal works of art.”

“Can I have that in writing?”

Dean flipped him off. “Where’s Kevin?”

Sam huffed and sat back in his chair, realizing he would get no reading in as long as his brother was around. “Probably picking out his room.”

Dean stiffened. “I call dibs on the one by the showers.” At Sam’s expected eye roll, he continued. “So what do you think happened to everyone?”

Sam shrugged, letting his eyes roam the massive library. “I don’t know. I’m guessing they all left after Henry disappeared. I mean it is a secure bunker, it’s not like they needed to leave someone on guard all these years, right?”

“You’re probably right,” Dean said, picking up a book and blowing a bit of dust off the cover. “It’s better than thinking we could be surrounded by Ghosts of Letters. Because that’s just disturbing.”

Sam snorted a laugh. “A better question is what are we supposed to do with all this?” He waved an arm, indicating the vast archive of books surrounding them.

Dean let his eyes roam the walls, shrugging a shoulder at the question. “Well, this is more up your alley, little brother. Just being in the same room with all these books is giving me the heebie-jeebies.” He faked a shudder for effect.

Sam shook his head fondly and picked up a key ring that was lying next to the stack of books on the table. “Then maybe this is more your style.” He tossed the keys to Dean who caught them deftly in one hand. The older man singled through them, frowning at the different colored fobs attached to the tops of the keys.

“The red one opens the armory,” Sam informed him with a grin.

Dean’s eyes went wide and he looked at his brother, his face lit up like Christmas. “We have an armory?”

Sam couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped at his brother’s unabashed excitement. “Dude, it’s like Candyland.”

……………………………………

Dean returned a few hours later, face flushed, eyes twinkling with happiness.

“Have fun?” Sam asked, sitting back and stretching his arms above his head. He had managed to get through a couple of the books in his brother’s absence, but was starting to get overwhelmed by the sheer volume of knowledge surrounding him. He found himself actually welcoming Dean’s interruption this time.

The older hunter tossed a set of iron manacles on the table, watching while Sam picked them up and examined the sigils carved into the metal. 

“Is this what I think it is?” The manacles were heavy, the iron beginning to rust with age, held together by a two-foot length of chain. The etchings on each iron band were recognizable and Sam’s brows rose at the implication.

Dean nodded, a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Yep. A mobile devil’s trap. Slap those babies on a demon and they’re your bitch.”

Sam set the manacles back on the table with care. “Those were in the armory?”

Dean shook his head and pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table, allowing himself to sink into its comfortable confines. “Nope. But let me tell you, we have every weapon known to man and then some. We even have a damn rocket launcher. Dude, we could take out a third world country.”

“Good to know,” Sam drawled. “But where did these come from?”

Dean sat back and lifted his legs onto the table, the smirk growing wider. “The dungeon.”

“The what?”

“Dude, not only do we have massive firepower and…” he waved a hand at the surrounding shelves, “…whatever geekified information you can find buried here, we have an honest to demon dungeon complete with permanent devil’s trap and soundproof walls.”

“Seriously?”

Before Dean could answer, his phone chirped and he twisted to pull it from his pocket. Glancing at the caller ID, he frowned before putting the device to his ear.

“Cas? Where the hell are you?”

“I am outside. I need to speak with you, but apparently your wards keep angels out as well as demons.”

“Oh,” Dean let his feet drop to the ground, giving his brother a sheepish look. “Sorry about that. We didn’t know. We’ll be right out.”

Sam had only heard one side of the conversation, but surmised the problem as his brother clicked off the call.

“The bunker is warded against angels, too?”

“Seems like,” Dean responded, pushing up from the table. 

“Think we can figure out how to fix that?”

Dean shrugged, waiting for Sam to close the book he was reading and stand to follow him out. “A better question is do you think we should?”

……………………………………..

Cas was standing near the Impala, a frown across his face. He pushed himself off the car as the Winchesters exited the door.

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean said as they approached the angel, pocketing the key. “I guess the Men of Letters weren’t the trusting type.”

Cas nodded, apparently unconcerned. “It would make sense to ward off anything that was not human, angels included. We have seen that not all angels can be trusted.”

“Amen to that,” Dean mumbled.

Sam ignored him. “What did you need to talk to us about?”

“I have, on good authority, found out a missing part of the spell you intend to undertake.”

Sam stood up straighter. “You figured out what the last ingredient is?”

Kevin had deciphered the ingredient as “the Word” but as of yet had no idea what that meant. With the Summer Soltice rapidly approaching, they knew they could use whatever help they could get and so far, Castiel had been invaluable to their cause.

“No, but I will ask Metatron.”

“Metatron?” Dean asked, surprised. “You actually know where we can find Metatron? The scribe who wrote the tablets?”

Castiel nodded. “He approached me at the cabin, after you had left.”

“Why?” Sam voiced the obvious question. “He’s been incommunicado for centuries, right? Why just show up now?”

“He sensed what you were doing with the tablets and he was concerned that it work out. He has offered to help.”

Dean looked around, noting the angel was the only other entity there. “Then where is he? If he wants to help so bad, why doesn’t he just come right out and say it?” Due to past experiences, the hunter was instinctively suspicious of angels offering to help.

“He has not interacted with humans for a long time,” Castiel explained. “He would rather remain in the background.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Uh huh.”

Castiel shrugged. “He has given me information that could affect the success of your spell.” He quickly explained about the blood offering, telling them both how Metatron had described it as a catalyst for the spell to work.

“Kevin never mentioned a blood offering,” Sam said cautiously.

“Metatron feared it would be overlooked,” Castiel justified the information. 

Dean and Sam exchanged a look of wariness before returning their attention to the angel.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean said with a grim smile. “We’ll check it out. Let us know if Metatron comes up with anything else.”

Castiel nodded and with a flutter of wings, disappeared from sight.

“You think Kevin just missed it?”

Dean shrugged in response to his brother’s question. “I don’t know. Maybe. The kid’s been working hard, but he’s still just a kid. This is all new to him.”

“Yeah,” Sam responded. “But you don’t think so.”

“Call it a hunch,” Dean sighed. “Angels have screwed us over more times than I can count.”

“Cas seems to think Metatron is on the up and up.” Sam wanted to believe Castiel. Ever since they’d begun their quest, he’d noticed that Dean had started to regain some trust in the angel. Cas had been doing everything he could to help them, showing Dean that he was there for them, that he was not going to betray that trust. Sam hoped it was real, because one more betrayal would be the last straw for his brother.

Dean nodded and turned, his lips set in a tight line. “And Cas has never been manipulated before.”

Sam reluctantly agreed. “So what? Do we take him at his word?”

Dean took a deep breath, lifting a hand to rub at the headache that had sprung up suddenly behind his eyes. “For now we have Kevin take another pass at the tablet. See if he can find anything about a blood offering.”

“What about the wards?” Sam asked. “Do we find a way to let Cas inside?”

Dean shook his head, regret playing on his face. “Until we know anything for sure, we’re better off alone.”

TBC…


	2. Act II

Worlds Collide  
Act II

Kevin pushed the tablet across the table in frustration, throwing both hands in the air as he slumped back into his chair. “I can’t find anything about a blood offering in there,” he admitted. “But I can barely read most of it and only understand about half of that.” He looked across the table at Sam and shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t know what to say.”

Sam sighed and leaned back in his own chair, one hand resting on the open book in front of him. “It’s okay, Kevin. Dean just wanted to try to confirm what Metatron told Cas.”

Kevin nodded. “Metatron is the one who wrote these tablets, right? I mean, the actual angel who transcribed the ‘Word of God’? Wouldn’t he know what he wrote? He’s an angel. We have to be able to trust an angel.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “You’d think that…” 

Footsteps, followed by an enticing aroma, captured their attention and they both sat forward, heads turning as Dean backed through the large doorway from the kitchen, his arms carrying a tray loaded with food.

“Dinner is served,” he said proudly, setting the tray down onto the far edge of the table. Sam and Kevin stretched toward the older man, their eyes riveted to the enticing burgers stacked with lettuce, pickles and onions that called to them from the tray.

“That smells awesome,” Kevin said, licking his lips. He smiled up at the older hunter. “You can cook?”

Dean looked at his brother, brows high in reproach, as he rounded the table and placed a plate in front of the young prophet. He stepped back, a grin on his face as Kevin took a bite of the burger, moaning in ecstasy as he chewed. “Dish ish amashng,” he mumbled, his mouth filled with juicy beef. 

Dean smiled triumphantly, his arms folded across his broad chest. Noticing Sam’s movement toward the tray, the older man hurried back around the table, pulling the tray out of his brother’s reach. “Uh uh uh, Sammy.” He held up a finger, tilting it back and forth like a metronome. “No works of art for you, remember?”

Sam’s eyes forlornly watched as the Dean took a seat next to Kevin and grabbed one of the other burgers in both hands. He took a bite, his eyes closing in delight as the taste danced across his tongue. 

“Come on, Dean,” Sam pleaded, his mouth watering as the scent of the cooked meat permeated the room. “I’m sorry, okay? You were the king of SpaghettiOs. I swear.”

Dean chuckled, picking up a napkin from the tray and wiping a bit of juice from his lip. He reached down and slid the tray across the table to his brother who grabbed the burger as if it were made of gold. He watched as Sam dug in, the sheer pleasure on Sam’s face all the retribution he needed. It wasn’t as if he’d never cooked for Sam before. There were times when Dad had left them in rooms with kitchenettes and little money, forcing Dean to become creative with the meal planning, not wanting his little brother to go hungry, but knowing they had to stretch the cash they did have out as long as they could. Sometimes that creativity had gone awry – as was the case with the Spam incident of ’95 – but for the most part he had been able to keep his brother fed and happy. 

It wasn’t like he was going to audition for Top Chef anytime soon, but now that they had a real kitchen, it wouldn’t be too hard to get used to some actual home cooking instead of diner food every day. Maybe they even had a cookbook or two somewhere in those archives.

They ate in silence, the quiet broken only by the occasional moan, a crunch of pickle or the soft clinking of ice in a glass. 

“Dean, that was…” A loud belch interrupted Sam’s remark, and the younger hunter sat back and rubbed his stomach. “That was the best burger I’ve ever had.”

Dean beamed at the compliment as Kevin grunted his agreement. “Well, don’t expect me to do all the cooking around here,” he said giving both his dining companions a stern look. “Out of the three of us, I’m the last one who’d get mistaken for a woman.”

Sam bristled at the jab. “Cooking is not a woman’s job, Cro-Magnon man,” he chided. “There are a lot of great chefs out there. Bobby Flay, Gordon Ramsay, Emerill Lagasse. They make millions from cooking.”

“It creeps me out that you know that, dude,” Dean said with an exaggerated shudder.

Kevin giggled as Sam gave his brother a one-fingered salute. 

“So, did you find anything in the tablets about the blood thing?” Dean ignored his brother’s gesture, sliding his plate across the table towards the empty tray.

Kevin followed suit, watching as Sam picked up all three empty plates and stacked them back onto the tray.

“No,” the teenager admitted. “But like I was telling Sam before, that doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Dean nodded thoughtfully. “So at this point we just have to take Metatron’s word for it.”

“I did find one other thing, though.” Kevin sat forward and reached for the tablet, sliding it back across the smooth tabletop. “It does say something about the location where the spell has to be performed.”

“I don’t suppose a warded underground bunker fits the criteria?” Dean asked hopefully.

Kevin reluctantly shook his head. “Afraid not, man. It says the spell has to be performed at midnight of the Summer Solstice in a ‘place of power where evil sleeps’ – whatever the hell that means.”

“A place of power where evil sleeps?” Deab repeated. “So like a demonic Holiday Inn?”

“Or a cemetery,” Sam offered. He raised his eyes to his brother. “One that has a direct line to Hell like the cowboy cemetery in Wyoming.”

Dean shrugged. “Or Stull. It’s close by, it’s supposed to be one of the gateways to Hell and we did open a direct expressway to Lucifer’s cage there.”

Sam swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to his hands folded on the table in front of him.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean said, his voice low and soft. “I don’t want to go back there either, but it fits.”

Sam nodded. He took a breath through his nose and huffed it out through pursed lips. “Okay,” he said, lifting his head and meeting his brother’s gaze. “Stull it is. But we still have to figure out what the last ingredient is.”

“Maybe Metatron can help with that.”

Sam’s eyebrows rose at Kevin’s suggestion. It was obvious the kid didn’t understand why the Winchesters – Dean especially – didn’t automatically trust everything the angels said, and neither hunter wanted to burst the kid’s bubble, but maybe it was time the prophet learned a few things about the so-called ‘good guys’. Sam was about to explain to the teenager why their faith in the angels was more than a bit tarnished when Dean responded instead.

“Maybe it’s a good idea.”

Sam looked at his brother as if he’d lost his mind. “Seriously?”

Dean shrugged. “Kevin is the prophet, right? Angels are supposed to protect the prophets. And it would be in Metatron’s best interest to make sure his work was being interpreted correctly.”

Sam knew his brother well enough to see behind the blatantly innocent look on the older man’s face. 

“And if we can get Metatron to consult with Kevin…” Sam began.

Dean’s guileless smile turned to one of resolve. “We can see for ourselves if he’s really on the bandwagon or just pulling our chain.” 

……………………………………..

It had taken convincing, but Castiel had finally gotten Metatron to agree to meet the Winchesters and the prophet in person. Since the Men of Letters bunker was still a no-angel zone – and would stay one for the time being -- they agreed to meet in a little coffee shop in a strip mall on the outskirts of Lenexa. Dean was confused when Castiel had insisted on a place that served croissants, but since the café had wi-fi and he could get an actual cup of coffee there -- not just that pansy ass mocha latte crap his brother drank -- he readily agreed.

Kevin had the tablet tucked into his backpack, the three of them deciding it would be better to have it on hand despite the potential danger of Crowley finding out where it was. If two angels and two well-armed hunters couldn’t handle the King of Hell, they were screwed anyway. 

Sam and Kevin were deep in discussion about something called Skyrim that involved scrolls, something called a Nord and talking dragons. Dean didn’t have any idea what they were mumbling about and had no desire to find out. He’d had his fill of dragons, thanks to the Mother of All, and would be eternally grateful if he never had to hear another story or mention of the creatures ever again. He sat back, letting the other sounds on the shop drift around him, taking in the other patrons of the small café. A businessman, working on a laptop sat in the corner, oblivious to the outside world. The tapping of computer keys blended with the soft music coming from the overhead speakers, making Dean wonder if he was deliberately typing to the beat. On the other side of the room, a mother and two pre-teen girls sat in a booth sipping smoothies, all three intent on their cell phones and paying little attention to each other. Dean shook his head at the picture of the modern electronic family. He could imagine them all sitting around the dinner table, each with their nose in a phone or iPad, together but isolated by their own volition. 

This was the way of life they were trying to protect?

Shaking his head in lament, he craned his neck, eyeing the bored girl at the counter behind them who was snapping her gum as she paged through the latest copy of Seventeen magazine. He brought his cup to his lips as he turned back toward the table, spilling some of the scalding liquid into his lap when his eyes landed on the two new arrivals across from him.

“Hello, Dean.”

The hunter jumped from his chair, hissing. He grabbed a napkin to mop up the stray drops that had fallen onto his jeans, giving Castiel a look of reproach. “Damnit, Cas. Can’t you use a friggin’ door?” He looked around, noting that none of the other patrons of the café had noticed the sudden additions to the crowd. 

Both Kevin and Sam took notice of the angels seated at their table, the taller hunter smirking as he watched his brother sit back down, still rubbing a napkin across the front of his jeans. “Problem?” he asked innocently.

“Shut it,” Dean replied. He tossed the napkin onto the table and used another to mop up the liquid that had spilled onto the Formica top. “Gonna put a goddamn bell around his neck,” he mumbled as he shoved the entire mess toward the center of the table.

“You must be Metatron,” Sam ignored his brother’s grumbling and looked toward the small, frumpy man seated next to Castiel.

“On Earth I go by Marvin,” the angel said, his tone friendly. “Clarence seems to be taken.” At the hunter’s look of confusion he smiled and continued. “You are Sam and Dean Winchester. I’ve heard quite a bit about you both.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Dean quipped. He was surprised by the new angel. The guy was short and chunky – not exactly the male model type most angels they’d met seemed to favor. One side of Dean’s mouth rose in a grin as he realized Metatron reminded him of a much older, slightly plumper version of Booger from the ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ movies. His hair was unruly and he sported a salt and pepper, three-day growth on his chin. He wore a worn olive-colored sweater that looked like it was picked up at a sale at Goodwill over a light blue denim shirt. Sitting next to Cas with his familiar suit, tie and trench coat, Metatron looked more homeless than heavenly.

God’s Scribe turned his hazel eyes toward Kevin. “I understand you have been having a hard time with my penchant for metaphor,” he grinned.

Kevin nodded, obviously taken aback to be in the presence of the angel who wrote the tablets he had been trying to decipher. “It is a little…”

“Outdated? Archaic? Antediluvian?” Metatron offered.

Kevin looked to Sam who simply shrugged.

“It’s a bit hard to read,” the young prophet clarified. 

“May I see it?”

The hunters exchanged a quick look before Sam nodded to the teenager and Kevin produced the artifact from his backpack.

Metatron ran his hands over the stone reverently. “It has been quite some time since I’ve laid eyes on one of these,” he said softly. “I understand you have a place to keep it safe?” He looked from Dean to Sam. “From angels as well as demons?”

Dean nodded. “Why would you think it needed to be protected from angels? You’re an angel.”

Metatron held the stone tablet to his chest and crossed his arms over it protectively. “True, but I’m not one of them.” 

Dean noted the stress on the word them with an arched eyebrow. “Them? As in…?”

“The archangels,” the scribe responded. “I worked in the secretarial pool before God chose me to take down the Word. Anyway, he… seemed very worried about his work, what would happen to it when he left, so he had me write down instructions. Then, he was gone. After that, the archangels took over.” He shrugged and sat back in his chair, his eyes moving from one face to another. “They cried, and they wailed. They wanted their father back. I mean we all did. But then… they started to scheme just like God knew they would. The archangels decided if they couldn’t have Dad, they take over the universe themselves. But they couldn’t do anything that big without the Word of God.”

“So the less they know about the Word, the better?”

The angel nodded at Sam’s assessment. “In case you haven’t noticed, the angels aren’t exactly an open-minded bunch. They tend to follow the status-quo.” He turned to Castiel, seated to his left. “With the exception of my new friend here, of course.”

“We’ve noticed,” Dean agreed. “So where have you been all this time?”

“Hiding.”

“Hiding?”

Metatron shrugged. “After God left, and the archangels started scheming, I figured they would eventually realize they needed me and I wanted no part in it.”

“So you just decided to stick your head in the sand?” Dean said hotly. “Do you have any idea what’s been going on down here?”

Metatron had the grace to look ashamed. “Yes, Castiel has filled me in. But really, there wasn’t anything I could’ve done to stop them. They had their minds set on the apocalypse, what was one scribe supposed to do to stop them?”

“One human managed it,” Dean pointed out.

Metatron’s eyes caught Sam’s. “Yes, and I for one am grateful. And now you are attempting to send the demons back where they belong. Again, commendable.”

And now you want to help?” Sam’s voice held the same air of suspicion as his brother’s

“Yes.”

“Matatron realizes his actions have been unworthy of a scribe of God.” Castiel interjected in the other angel’s defense. “He wishes to atone for his mistakes.”

“A lot of that going around,” Dean remarked, his eyes holding Castiel’s for a moment before turning back to regard the scribe. “Okay. You want to help? We still need the last ingredient.”

“I interpreted it as the Word,” Kevin offered. “But we don’t know exactly what that means.”

Metatron laid the tablet on the table and spread a hand over it like Vanna White. “Simple, the Word is the tablet itself.”

The three humans stared at the angel for moment. 

“Do you mean we just need to add the tablet to the other ingredients?”

“Of course,” Metatron smiled as if it was obvious. “When you are ready to perform the spell, smash the tablet and add it to the rest. Recite the incantation and poof! No more demons on earth.”

“Incantation?” Kevin asked, his eyes roaming the chiseled tablet. 

“Yes,” Metatron motioned Kevin closer and the kid slid his chair up next to the angel. “You see here…”

As the scribe and the prophet lost themselves in the tablet, Sam slid his chair back and motioned for his brother to follow him to the trash bins on the far side of the café. Once they were out of earshot – or as far as they could get without actually stepping out of the county – he crossed his arms and leaned toward him, his voice a low whisper. “You still don’t trust him, do you?”

Dean shrugged. “He’s an angel, Sam. It’s not like we’ve had a real good track record with angels.”

“I know, but they can’t all be dicks, right?”

“Right. Tell that to Zachariah. He was a belly full of laughs.”

Sam huffed his agreement. “Well what about Joshua? He seemed to be on our side. And Anna?”

Dean tossed his empty cup into the trash and rubbed a hand down his face. “Before or after she tried to erase you from existence?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Well… before… and there’s Cas.”

Dean nodded, watching the dark haired angel from across the room. Castiel’s attention was on the pair at the table, watching as Metatron pointed out different parts of the tablet to Kevin who was nodding and scribbling furiously in his notebook. “Cas has lied to us before, Sam. Purgatory ring a bell?”

“All I’m saying Dean, is that we have to have faith in something.” Sam’s voice was soft, but the need in the tone broke through to the older hunter.

“I do have faith in something. Us.”

The younger man sighed. “So what do you want to do?”

“Exactly what we planned to do from the start. We do the spell and hope it works and sends all those sons of bitches back to Hell.”

“What if it doesn’t work?”

Dean turned to face his brother. “Then we’re no worse off than we are now.” At the look of uncertainty on his brother’s face, Dean continued. “What do you want to do, Sam? Quit? Give up?” He waved a hand toward the table where the two angels and God’s prophet were deep in discussion. “We’ve got a chance to send Crowley and his goons back to Hell. It doesn’t even matter for how long. A week, a month, hell if it’s only for a year, at least that’s a year we won’t have to worry about demons breathing down our necks.”

Sam breathed out slowly through his nose. “But we have no idea if Metatron is on the level.” 

“No, we don’t. But what choice do we have? We either give this a shot or we don’t.”

Sam nodded. “If it does work, we buy some time to maybe rebuild what Henry started.”

Dean slapped the taller man on the shoulder. “Exactly. With the information in that bunker, we could finally have the upper hand in this damn war.”

Convinced, Sam grinned. “Then let’s get to it.”

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

Worlds Collide  
Act III

The deep rumble of the Impala gave way to an eerie silence that filled the old cemetery as Dean cut the Chevy’s engine. Neither man made a move to exit the car, both lost in thought, memories of a day they couldn’t forget tumbling through their minds. Stull Cemetery hadn’t changed all that much in the years since they’d last been here, the lonely, deserted plot as desolate as Dean remembered.

He had stopped the Impala near the clearing Michael and Lucifer had chosen for their ultimate showdown, at the end of the rutted dirt path. A low, wrought iron fence surrounded the area, black posts ending in ornate spikes, some askew, some completely detached, lying in the grass below, added to the bleak landscape. A mild wind made the tall grass sway, like waves rolling across a brown and green sea, flowing into the setting sun. The effect was weirdly hypnotic.

“A place of power where evil sleeps,” Dean intoned, his eyes darting around the graveyard. Stull seemed the embodiment of that phrase.

“I really don’t remember much,” Sam’s soft voice admitted. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused. “All I really remember is you, slumped against the Impala, half your face broken, one eye swollen shut. You could barely move, and you were just watching me. I don’t think I would’ve been able to do it if I hadn’t been able to see you there.”

Dean swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, not needing to be reminded what the ‘it’ his brother referred to was. Unlike Sam, his memories of what went down that day were sharp and vivid. “Don’t think that was one of my best looks, dude.” His attempt at levity fell flat. He cringed, remembering the pain, knowing the beating he had taken from Lucifer would’ve probably killed him if it wasn’t for Cas.

Sam huffed a humorless laugh. “No. Definitely not.” He turned in the car, his eyes finding his brother’s. “This is not going to be a repeat of that.” His voice was even, but Dean could detect the underlying worry.

The older hunter shook his head, pasting a confident smile on his face. “No way, Sammy. This time we both survive. This time it’s those evil sons-of-bitches who lose.”

Sam searched his brother’s face for a moment, then nodded once in agreement. 

Without a word, they both opened their doors and stepped out, each stopping a moment to let their eyes roam the desolate place where so much had been taken from them. After a beat, Dean stepped away from the car, moving around to open the trunk. He pulled two packed duffle-bags from the car, handing the one holding the ingredients for the spell to Sam and shouldering the other carrying the weapons before closing the trunk. He glanced around the cemetery, his eyes taking in the layout, noting they would be completely exposed if anything went wrong.

“Not much cover out here,” he observed.

Sam followed his gaze. “At least nothing can sneak up on us,” he offered.

Dean snorted a laugh. “Except demons and angels and any other supernatural creature that can just pop in out of nowhere.”

Sam conceded the point with a tip of his head, but he knew what – or rather who – Dean was looking for. “You want to call him again?”

Dean frowned. “Who, Cas?” He shook his head but wouldn’t look his brother in the eye. “We called him, we prayed to him… he’s not answering, Sam. Can’t say I’m all that surprised.”

They had tried to get in touch with the angel after they had packed up the Impala, Sam insisting – and Dean reluctantly agreeing – it would be advantageous to have Castiel on board when the spell went down. They had no idea what to expect. They had left Kevin secured in the bunker since they both knew they had little defense out in the open against any demon that tried to stop them. Having an angel at their backs in case someone got wind of their plan would be a huge advantage, and, since Castiel had become so chummy with Metatron, they’d hoped that the angel would be able to give them some insight as to what they were getting themselves into. 

Having Cas around was something they had both counted on, but their phone calls had gone straight to voicemail, and the prayers remained unanswered. Sam could tell his brother was disappointed, although he tried to hide it behind a veil of nonchalance. Castiel’s efforts to help them find the ingredients for the spell, as well as his willingness to work with them concerning Metatron, had gone a long way toward healing the damage his betrayal had caused in his relationship with Dean, but his being MIA when they were on final approach was not helping his cause. 

“You said it yourself, Dean. We’d both feel a lot better knowing we had an angel around for backup in case something goes sideways.” Sam pleaded his case. “Cas said he’d be here. Maybe we should give him some more time?”

“Yeah, well I’d feel a lot better if we had a crystal ball so we could see what happens before we do it, too, but that ain’t gonna happen.” Dean shrugged, his voice betraying his regret. “Dude, we’ve been down this road too many times. If Cas wanted to be here, he’d be here. There’s nothing we can do about it, and this spell has to go down tonight.”

Sam nodded reluctantly. “I know. I guess I just thought…”

“That he’d come through this time?” Dean gave his brother a disheartened grin. “Me too, man. I really wanted to be able to trust him... believe in him like I used to.” He shrugged again, his lips flattening into a thin line. “Like I said before, Sam, Cas isn’t like us, he isn’t human. We just have to stop expecting him to act like one.”

Sam sighed, knowing his brother was right. “So, it’s up to us, huh?”

Dean snorted a laugh, and moved around Sam, one hand slapping his brother’s stomach as he passed. “Just like always, little brother.”

………………………………………

“I should contact Dean and Sam,” Castiel tore his eyes away from the children playing on the playground equipment across the park. Metatron had asked him to join him, wanting to learn all that had transpired in the world while he had remained hidden, concealing himself from the archangels to protect the Word of God. He had listened, enthralled, as Castiel described the angels’ attempt to force the apocalypse, amazed at how two humans had thwarted the Archangels’ attempt. Castiel had also told him of his own betrayal of the Winchesters’ trust, his ill-conceived alliance with Crowley and ultimately letting the Leviathans loose upon the world. His voice filled with regret as he explained how he was trying to rebuild his relationship with the Winchesters – especially Dean, who had taken the betrayal of his trust the hardest. Thoughts of the Winchesters made him reach into his pocket for his cell phone, surprised to find no messages listed on the device. “It is almost time for them to perform the spell. I gave them my word I would be there to assist them.”

Metatron waved a hand at the phone, clucking his tongue as he snatched it from Castiel’s hand. “Using one of their electronic devices? Castiel, you’re an angel. Why stoop to such levels?”

“Sometimes it is convenient,” the younger angel explained. “I was forced to place sigils on Dean and Sam to hide them from Zachariah and Raphael. I can no longer sense them unless they pray for me.”

“And Dean doesn’t pray a lot anymore, does he?”

Cas sighed, sitting back against the park bench. “No. Dean… has lost his faith in angels… in me.”

Metatron sat back, his shoulder brushing Castiel’s. “Humans are funny that way.” 

Cas nodded. “I cannot find it in me to blame him.”

“From what you’ve told me, you were trying to do what you believed was right.”

Cas’ eyes lost focus as he reflected on what had made him align with Crowley, how he had hid his actions from his friend, telling himself it was for Dean’s own good, but knowing all along it was because he couldn’t risk the hunter interfering. “I believed I was doing the right thing,” he admitted. “I thought Dean was happy where he was, with the woman and the boy he had promised his brother he would go to. I believed if I could somehow get the upper hand, absorb enough souls, I could defeat Raphael and he would be safe.”

Meatron nodded, his eyes watching Castiel’s face. “A noble endeavor.”

“I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were. But that is the irony of free will,” Metatron said, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “Sometimes, you make the wrong choice for the right reasons.”

“Perhaps that is why our Father expects absolute obedience. So that His will is done and the outcome is not left to chance.”

Metatron tilted his head. “Perhaps. But maybe your choices are His will. It is not ours to know or understand God’s plan for us.”

Castiel frowned. “Dean should have called by now.” He placed both hands on the bench and began to rise, but Metatron laid a hand against his chest, effortlessly pushing him back onto the bench. 

“This is something your human friends must do on their own,” the scribe said. “You must not interfere. Your true mission lies elsewhere.”

Castiel turned his head, staring at the angel in confusion. “I do not understand.”

“You have been chosen for something very special, Castiel.” Metatron’s eyes glimmered, and Castiel’s confusion turned to alarm. “We must teach the angels a lesson,” the scribe continued. “It is God’s will they be punished. They have disappointed Him and He will see them held accountable for their transgressions.”

Castiel tried to rise again, but it was like he was glued to his seat, his body unable to move. “God wants you to punish the angels?”

“Us, Castiel. You and I.” Metatron placed his hand on Castiel’s shoulder reverently. “Only with your help can our Father’s will be done.”

…………………………………..

The sun had set and the hunters had lit the lanterns they had brought, placing them along the edges of the clearing. The light from the lanterns flickered, casting eerie shadows across the open ground and into the rustling grass beyond. They had been in hundreds of cemeteries at night, digging graves, laying spirits to rest, but this particular cemetery was different. 

There were no chirping crickets, no buzzing flies, just an ominous silence broken only by their breaths and shuffling steps in the dead grass. Despite his experience, Dean found it unsettling. He kept one eye on his brother as Sam unloaded the ingredients from the duffle bag, the other on the skulking shadows as he shifted his shotgun from one shoulder to the other. They had unloaded their weapons, placing knives, guns and stakes at regular intervals around the clearing, not wanting to be caught unarmed if any unexpected guests showed up. Sam had Ruby’s knife tucked into his belt and Dean was armed with Holy water and a shotgun loaded with salt rounds, with even more weapons hidden in the duffle at the edge of the clearing. As Sam prepared the ground for the ritual, Dean patrolled the perimeter, his senses on alert, his tension high.

They would only get one shot at this. If it worked, they could breathe easier for a while. If not… he’d told Sam they wouldn’t be any worse off than they were now, but he knew that wasn’t quite the truth. They’d faced disappointment before – numerous times – but this seemed different. They’d been through so much, been dealt blow after blow and they desperately needed a win, if only to keep up their resolve. Dean didn’t think they could withstand another setback – he couldn’t withstand another setback -- especially so soon after Cas and Dick Roman and Purgatory. If there was any justice in the world -- and Dean knew that was a huge if -- they could, for once, catch a break, give themselves time to regroup. If they had the time, they could make some headway into Henry’s Men Of Letters archives and perhaps be able to find a way to swing the tide of this war in their favor, in humanity’s favor, and for once gain the upper hand against all the evil sons-of-bitches that made their lives a living hell.

Even before Purgatory, he had found himself wondering if they would ever be able to make a dent in this fight. Finding Henry, finding the bunker and all its potential secrets was a boon to their cause. If the archives could provide them with the knowledge Henry suggested it could, they would have the intel they so desperately needed to level the playing field. But they needed to buy themselves time. They needed to keep the evil at bay long enough to be able to sort through the information and find out just what they’d been handed. He had no doubt that between Sam and Kevin, they could suss out anything that could aid them in their fight. Henry’s legacy was in good hands, as long as Dean could find a way to give them the opportunity to unravel the mysteries locked inside that archive.

That was why this spell had to work. It was the only shot they had.

“I think that’s it.”

Dean’s thoughts were interrupted by his brother’s voice and he crossed the small clearing to Sam’s side, looking down at the younger hunter’s careful arrangement. Sam had placed a white sheet on the ground, protection sigils drawn around the edges. In the center of the sheet lay a large, shallow bowl made of copper they had found tucked away in some of the boxes Bobby had left in the cabin. Six more sigils surrounded the bowl, five of them containing an ingredient of the spell. The last sigil was covered by the demon tablet, the final ingredient.

“Very feng shui,” Dean quipped.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Like you have a clue what that means.”

Dean shrugged. “Like I have any desire to.”

Sam snorted a laugh. “So now what?”

Dean checked his watch, realizing they had less than half an hour until midnight. “What did Metatron say we were supposed to do with the tablet?”

Sam sighed. “Smash it.”

“Seriously?”

The younger hunter nodded. “Yep. It’s supposed to be smashed and the pieces placed in the cauldron with the other ingredients. Apparently, it’s the ‘glue’ that’s supposed to hold it all together.” 

Dean smiled at his brother’s use of air quotes. “I don’t know, Sammy. Smashing an ancient religious artifact seems very anti-Indiana Jones-ish.”

“I hear ya, but that comes straight from the Scribe of God himself.”

It was Dean’s turn to sigh. “Awesome.” He still wasn’t sure whether to trust the angel, but what choice did they have? The clock was ticking down, and Metatron was calling the play. All they could do was see it through and hope they were doing the right thing. “So, you want to do the honors?” He waved a hand at the tablet, finding himself reluctant to be the one to destroy it.

Sam gave him a sharp look. “My turn to take one for the team?”

Dean tilted his head and pursed his lips in response. “I ganked Dick. It’s only fair.”

Sam returned the grin knowingly. “Fine, Indiana.”

He kneeled down, reaching for the small mallet that lay next to the tablet, hefting it in his hand as he took a long draw of air. He glanced back up at his brother, his eyes wide, his cheeks expanding as he puffed out the breath. “Here goes nothing.”

Sam brought the mallet down on the tablet, striking center. A loud clap of thunder rolled across the silence, causing them both to jump, eyes rising to the cloudless sky. A crackling sound brought their attention back to the ground and they watched in wonder as the tablet began to shake, veiny cracks beginning to appear in the stone, running from the center to the edges as if alive. After a few seconds, a beam of light flashed out from each crack and the tablet disintegrated into hundreds of small shards, littering the white sheet like ancient rubble.

“That was… disturbing,” Dean said, his voice low, hushed. The light from the tablet had only flashed for a split second, but he had felt an intense heat as it passed through him and it had left him breathless. “You think that was supposed to happen?”

“A better question is what the hell you two monkeys think you’re up to.”

Both hunters spun, Dean bringing the shotgun up, Sam pulling Ruby’s knife the moment they heard the familiar lilting voice behind them. Crowley stood in front of the Impala, hands inside the pocket of his black coat, a cocky smile on his face.

“Hello, boys.”

……………………………………………….

“I don’t understand,” Castiel searched Metatron’s face, clueless as to why the angel was holding him there instead of allowing him to keep his promise to the Winchesters. “What does our Father ask of me?”

Metatron snapped his fingers and Castiel found himself in a familiar flower garden, a serene silence permeating the air around him. He couldn’t help but cringe as the memory of his last visit to the place swept through his mind. The bodies of the angels no longer littered the ground, and Raphael would not step out to confront him ever again, but the peace of this place had been destroyed for him and it no longer gave him the feeling of tranquility it once did.

“Why did you bring me here?” He turned to Metatron, his curiosity tinged with impatience. “I must go to Dean and Sam.”

Metatron shook his head, a sad smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, Castiel. Your friends will be fine, but I’m afraid I need something more from you.”

………………………………………………

“Crowley,” Dean growled. He knew the shotgun would be useless against the demon, but he cocked the weapon out of spite. “How did you find us?”

The King of Hell pulled a hand from his pocket and waved it toward the crumbled stone tablet behind them. “Is that my tablet?” He looked from one hunter to the other, his brow furrowed. “Did you two dim bulbs just destroy a priceless, millennium-old artifact? Tsk tsk tsk. That’s why you shouldn’t be allowed to play with nice things.”

“I’ll ask again,” Dean shifted the weapon up to aim at Crowley’s face. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley took a deep breath through his nose, grinning as his eyes widened innocently. “Would you believe I felt a disturbance in the force?”

“The light,” Sam surmised. “It must’ve been some sort of…”

“Demonic bat signal?” Dean finished for him.

Crowley chuckled ominously. “An apt analogy coming from you, Squirrel. Apparently, when you destroy a tablet of God, the supernatural world feels the repercussions.”

Sam lowered his voice, directing his next statement to his brother. “I guess Metatron forgot to mention that little tidbit.”

Dean huffed in reply. 

“So,” Crowley took a step forward, clapping once then rubbing his hands together. “What are you potty buggers up to? Hmmm?” He craned his neck dramatically, making a show of observing the sheet behind them, his eyes taking in the sigils and the vials. “Looks to me like you’ve got a bit of magic going on here. Let me guess, something our mutual friend Kevin found in my tablet?”

“It’s need to know,” Dean returned the demon’s snide grin. “And trust me, you don’t need to know.”

“Oh, I disagree,” Crowley took another step closer and Dean began to circle around toward the weapons bag, leaving Sam and the knife to guard the spell. The demon glanced at Sam, then turned his head to follow Dean. “I’d appreciate it if we could do this quickly and civilly. I was in the middle of paperwork when I received your little summons.” 

“Well, don’t let us keep you,” Dean sneered and continued to edge his way around the clearing. “As a matter of fact, give us a minute and we can probably help you out with your travel plans.”

Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Always so shirty…” With a flick of his wrist, one of the wrought iron posts that had fallen from the low fence surrounding the cemetery flew through the air, impaling the older hunter through the shoulder.

“Dean!” Sam watched in horror as his brother grunted in pain and dropped to his knees. He took a step forward, but Crowley lifted his hand and Sam found himself stuck to the ground as if his feet were cased in cement. 

“Not so fast, Moose,” Crowley directed his attention to the younger hunter, turning his back on Dean as the older man dropped the shotgun and fell to the ground. “I believe I asked you a question.”

“Let me go!” Sam huffed out, his eyes flashing between the demon and the inert form of his brother. Dean was lying partially on his side, both ends of the post jutting out from the rapidly spreading red stain on his jacket. His eyes were squeezed tight against the pain, but he was still conscious, still breathing. “Please,” Sam begged turning to the demon. “Let me help him.”

Crowley sighed in annoyance. “I’m starting to think I’m talking to myself. I’ll ask you one more time, what are you two up to?” His voice rose in volume until he was screaming into Sam’s face, his eyes hard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “And why did you destroy my tablet?”

Dean opened his eyes, huffing short breaths as the pain in his shoulder tapered off, becoming more of a throbbing ache than the searing pain he had initially felt. He knew he was in trouble, his arm starting to tingle as the circulation became compromised. He didn’t dare move it for fear of passing out, but he knew he had to do something or Crowley would be able to ruin everything they’d worked so hard to accomplish. He looked around, noting the duffle bag sitting only a few yards from where he’d fallen and a plan formed in his head. He glanced at Sam, letting his eyes drift from Crowley to the bag, seeing his brother’s face go from fear and concern to understanding and determination in the blink of an eye.

“Fine,” Sam said turning his attention back to the demon. He waved a hand toward the sheet, keeping Crowley’s focus on him and away from Dean. “You want to know what we’re doing? We’re planning on kicking your ass off our planet. We’ve found a way to blast you and all your kind back downstairs in one fell swoop.” 

Crowley studied Sam, his eyes wide in incredulity. “Are you saying you two wankers stumbled upon some magic spell that is supposed to eliminate demons from the earth?” He snickered insolently. “And you thought that you had the goolies to actually make it work?” He snorted. “That is priceless, Moose. Just priceless.”

Sam held his tongue, but let his anger show in his face. In his peripheral vision, he could see Dean moving, dragging himself slowly toward the weapons bag that lay only a few feet from where he’d fallen, but forced himself to keep his eyes locked onto Crowley, giving his brother the time he needed to put his plan into motion. He had no idea what Dean was up to, but whatever it was, he hoped Dean had the strength to pull it off. He silently prayed to Castiel, imploring the angel to appear before it was too late.

“And you are just going to trust that your teenage prophet is adept enough to get it right?” Crowley lowered his head, dropping his voice to a low whisper. “Sam, Sam, Sam… and here I thought you were the smart one.”

Sam allowed his lips to curl into a spiteful grin. “We got a second opinion.” He could see Dean digging through the duffle, extracting something and forcing himself to his feet. Sam smiled, understanding dawning.

Intrigued, Crowley tilted his head. “Do tell.”

“We found God’s Scribe.”

Crowley’s smile faded and he looked decidedly uncomfortable at the news. “Metatron? I thought he was dead.”

Sam shook his head, pleased at having been able to surprise the demon, not to mention keep his attention focused away from his slowly advancing brother. “Not dead, just lying low. He gave us a few tips.”

Before Crowley could respond, Dean staggered in from behind, grabbing the demon’s arm and slapping a metal cuff around his wrist, locking it with a flick of his thumb.

Crowley, stunned at the sudden attack, turned, his alarm immediately turning to outrage. He held up a hand in attempt to fling the wounded man back across the clearing, but, to everyone’s surprise, nothing happened. Crowley looked in shock, his angry eyes tracking from the hunter’s ginning face to the metal shackle that now encircled his wrist.

“Is this a joke?”

Dean shook his head, a deep, weary chuckle escaping his throat as he took an unsteady step back, listing dangerously to one side. “No joke, jackass. Demonic handcuffs, which means no flicking, no teleporting, no smoking out… it pretty much means that you’re our bitch.”

“You want to play chain gang?” Crowley asked, his voice a dangerous growl. “Let’s.” He snaked his free hand out, grasped the blood soaked spike protruding from Dean’s shoulder and pulled, eliciting an abrupt scream of pain from the hunter as the narrow rod ripped from the wound. “You saddled yourself to the wrong bull, mate.”

Sam, spurred into action by Dean’s piercing shriek, reached around and grabbed Crowley’s coat, dragging the demon away from his falling brother. As he spun him around, Sam, fueled by fear and rage, cocked a fist back and let a powerful punch fly directly into the demon’s face. 

Crowley dropped like a rock. 

Sam stooped and hastily snapped the other cuff onto the demon’s free arm, making sure Crowley was secured before rushing to his brother’s side. Dean had fallen to his knees the moment Crowley had pulled the spike from his shoulder and was swaying, his body beginning a slow descent to the ground, saved from the painful impact by Sam’s sudden support.

“Dean!” he called, his anxious voice loud in the silence. He took his brother’s weight and slowly eased him down, placing a knee behind his back to keep his upright. “Easy, man. Easy.”

Sam let go, his leg acting as support while he ripped off his own shirt, twisted it and wrapped it over Dean’s shoulder and under his armpit, effectively adding pressure to both sides of the bleeding wound. He pulled the material tight, apologizing as the increased pressure evoked a choked cry of pain from his brother. The spike that adorned the post had entered through the back, piercing the front of Dean’s shoulder through the muscle. It was no small miracle that Crowley had yanked the rod out through the front. Sam didn’t want to think of what would’ve happened if the spike had been pulled back through his brother’s body a second time.

“I bet that felt good.” Dean was grinning, his face pale, the freckles across his nose standing out in vivid detail in the dim light. His eyes were locked on Crowley, who was slowly pushing up to his knees, his bound hands cradling his nose. 

“You have no idea,” Sam chuckled. He turned his attention back to his brother’s wound. “It’s not bleeding too badly,” he stated after a quick examination. “But who knows how much crap was on that rod. We need to get this cleaned up.”

Dean shook his head, wincing as he pulled his arm across his body. He clamped down with his good hand, pulling the wounded arm to the side of his body, securing the make-shift bandage in place by the pressure. He placed his feet under him and rolled forward in an attempt to lever himself up. “No time, Sammy. It’s almost midnight. It’s now or never, dude.”

Reluctantly, Sam realized his brother was right. The spell was ready to go and they didn’t have any more time to waste. He stood and reached down, pulling Dean to his feet, holding on until he was sure the older man was reasonably stable.

“You good?”

Dean swallowed and took a deep shaking breath, then nodded. “Just make it quick.”

“You got it,” Sam said. He leaned down and dug through the duffle, pulling an empty vial from the folds of the material. He held it up and pointed to his brother’s seeping shoulder, giving him an apologetic grin. “Mind if I borrow some of that? No sense in both of us bleeding.”

TBC…


	4. Act IV

Worlds Collide  
Act IV

The clearing was covered with dry, dead grass, patches of cracked soil dotting through the center. Sam had used one of the larger sparse patches of earth to set up the spell leaving a few other grass free areas speckling the vicinity. A quick excursion to the Impala netted him a can of florescent orange spray paint and one of their rolled up sleeping bags. In minutes he had a workable devil’s trap to contain Crowley, who glowered at both of them from his Day-Glo prison.

Dean was seated partway between the demon and Sam’s set-up, leaning back against the sleeping bag. Sam had stuffed both duffels against the bag and wedged it up against the bottom of a broken headstone, giving the older hunter some support. Dean held his arm against his torso, the shotgun filled with salt rounds lying across his lap. Sam didn’t like how pale his brother had become, nor the fact that the older man hadn’t made any attempt to move his wounded arm since Crowley had yanked the spike out. The taller hunter suspected the wound needed immediate attention, but knew his brother was right – there was no time. They had to perform the spell now – there was no turning back.

Crowley’s taunts had given way to curiosity, obviously accepting that the hunters were determined to go through with the spell, and he now sat quietly inside the trap, watching intently as Sam kneeled at the edge of the sheet. 

Sam checked his watch for the tenth time in the last five minutes, wondering if time had actually slowed down as they waiting for midnight to arrive.

Two more minutes.

He sighed, impatient to get the show on the road, not only to find out if their efforts proved successful, but to complete the spell so he could get his brother some much needed medical attention. He’d spent two long, lonely months alone, trying to find a way to get Dean back, he wasn’t about to let him go again. Not after everything they’d been through, not after finally regaining his brother’s trust.

This do-or-die crap had to stop. Sam was tired. He knew Dean was, too. Tired of just surviving from one catastrophe to the next – their very existence on the line time and time again. He’d been the one taken and the one left behind, and he could say with a fair amount of certainty that both sides sucked. That was why they needed this spell to work. Call him selfish, but he didn’t want to go down that road one more time. Their lives had to be worth something more than sacrifice.

“You know, you could call this all off, Mutton Chops.” Crowley broke the silence, his head canting toward Dean, his eyes reflecting the flickering light of the lanterns. “Captain America over there is looking rather peaked. Maybe you should just take a rain check on this paltry little spell of yours.”

“Don’t listen to him, Sammy. I can smell his fear from over here.” Dean’s voice was weak, but Sam couldn’t help but smile at the taunt in his brother’s tone. “He’s just compensating for all the inadequacies he’s gonna have to deal with once we blow a hole in his mojo.”

“I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with inadequacies,” the demon shot back.

Dean’s grin never faltered. “In your dreams, asshat.”

Sam chuckled as he checked his watch again, his heart rate accelerating as the last seconds ticked down.

“It’s time.”

Dean turned his attention to his brother, struggling a moment to pull himself further up on the sleeping bag. As he settled, the hunters locked eyes solemnly, both giving and taking strength from each other.

“You got this, Sammy.”

At his brother’s words of encouragement, Sam took a deep breath and cleared his mind, focusing on the task before him.

He scooped up the shards of the broken tablet in both hands, carefully dropping them into the cauldron, reciting the few words of Enochian Kevin had translated from the tablet. He reached for the vial in the first sigil, the one containing the myrrh from the tree, and poured it over the broken stone, repeating the chant. His head shot up at the clap of thunder overhead, his eyes watching the clouds racing along the edge of the sky, blotting out the twinkling stars. Electricity filled the air, a stiff breeze lifting the edges of the sheet. He glanced at his brother who was now holding onto the shotgun, his attention shifting from the threatening sky to the tall grass surrounding them, billowing in the building wind. Dean’s eyes landed on the cauldron, his body tense, breathing shallowly as Sam continued.

The younger man grasped another vial and removed the stopper, watching in wonder as the golden essence of Henry’s memories flowed into the bowl. The current in the atmosphere intensified, his exposed skin beginning to tingle.

“You two idiots have no idea what you’re messing with,” Crowley growled. The demon had risen to his knees and was pushing against the invisible barrier created by the devil’s trap. “You know why I always beat you? It’s your humanity. It’s a built-in handicap. You always put emotion before good old-fashioned common sense. For all you know you’re about to blow up the entire planet.” He shook his head back and forth, his eyes shifting from one brother to the other.

“Then we’ll be taking you out with us,” Dean responded, a matching snarl in his voice. “Win-win if you ask me.”

Sam hesitated as he reached for the fourth ingredient, his eyes looking to his brother in doubt. Maybe Crowley was right. They really had no idea what would happen when they completed the spell. They were relying on a teenaged prophet and an angel who had stepped aside and let the archangels nearly bring about the apocalypse. They had no way of knowing whether they were saving the world from evil or condemning it to something worse. 

“Dean?” Sam had been down this road before and he knew he couldn’t make this decision alone. It was too big. He had done what he thought was the right thing in the past – and those decisions had come back to bite them in the ass. He knew, deep down, they were doing what needed to be done, but he’d be lying if he said he had one hundred percent faith in his own judgment anymore. There was only one person he trusted to make the right call, and right now, that person was sitting yards away, bleeding to death, putting his trust in Sam.

Dean sensed his brother’s hesitation and cleared his throat, bringing the younger man’s attention to him. “Fourth and goal, Sammy. All we got left is a Hail Mary.”

The sports metaphors may have been lost on Kevin Tran, but it was exactly what Sam needed to hear. With a solid nod, he steeled his reserves and reached for the vial containing the dark blood of the hellhound.

…………………………..

Castiel leaned down and sniffed at the flowers in the bed, relishing the heavenly scent. Metatron had not elaborated on why he had been brought to this garden and he was beginning to suspect the scribe of being less than honest with him about his plans.

“Are you going to explain why you’ve kept me here?” Castiel finally turned to Metatron, piercing him with a blue-eyed stare. “I have made a promise and I must keep it. Dean and Sam are depending on me.”

Metatron nodded contritely. “You have chosen your friends well, Castiel. But as I said before, this is something they will have to do alone. The angels have interfered enough with mankind’s destiny. It is not God’s plan for us to impede humanity’s providence.”

Castiel frowned. “But it is not humanity that has determined that destiny. We have allowed the demons and Lucifer to interfere. If we had interceded sooner, Dean Winchester would never have broken the first seal, and humanity would never have been at the brink of the apocalypse. Why is it that we should not be allowed to clean up a mess we made?”

Metatron chuckled, clasping his hands in front of him like a proud parent witnessing a child’s first step. “Castiel, you cannot begin to understand the joy it brings me to hear those words. I agree with you. I believe the angels have far overstepped their boundaries, but, unlike you, I don’t believe they are inclined to, as you said, clean up their own mess.”

“Is it not our responsibility?” Castiel asked with a tilt of his head. “Would that not be in keeping with our Father’s plan?”

Metatron shrugged, a sigh escaping through his nose. “Alas, Castiel, He is not around to ask.”

“What was He like?” Castiel asked.

“God?” Metatron smiled, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “Pretty much like you’d expect. Larger than life, gruff, a bit of a sexist… but fair. Eminently fair.”

“You said that I am part of God’s plan.”

“Yes.”

Castiel was beginning to understand Dean’s frustration with non-answers. “What does He ask of me?”

Metatron stepped closer, invading Castiel’s space, and the angel found himself sympathizing with another of his human friend’s constant objections.

“I’m sorry, Castiel.” The older angel placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, and the trench coated angel felt himself, once again, unable to move his body. “I hope that one day you will understand this sacrifice that is asked of you.”

“Sacrifice?”

Matatron pulled an angel knife from under his sweater and stepped forward, holding it up, letting the sunshine bounce off its blade. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be plucked from obscurity, to sit at God’s feet, to be asked to write down His word?”

Castiel swallowed, his eyes following the sword, fear sweeping through him. “I imagine it would be wonderful,” he managed to respond.

“It was,” Metatron said wistfully. “But the ache I felt when He was gone… He left us with a paradise, though, Castiel. A beautiful world full of His creations to look after and cherish.” Matatron dropped the sword to his side and looked up at Castiel his eyes filled with sadness. “But your Archangels couldn’t leave well enough alone. I was forced to run from my home. Do you not believe I deserve some kind of payback?”

Cas blinked, not able to shake his head, his body immobile. “Our mission was to protect what God created,” he reasoned. “Some of us forgot that, and I want nothing more than to be allowed to fix what the angel’s destroyed.”

Metatron smiled. “I know that, Castiel. That is why I chose you to fulfill this mission.”

“But you said this was God’s plan.”

The scribe laughed through his nose, the sound holding as much derision as it did humor. “I lied.”

……………………………………………

Sam poured the Hellhound blood into the cauldron, the feral, decaying odor making his nose crinkle in disgust. He uttered the charm for the fourth time, cringing as a bolt of lightning flashed against the dark backdrop of the sky. The electric current in the atmosphere was getting stronger by the minute, the smell of sulfur beginning to permeate the air. The breeze had increased, blowing the edges of the sheet, curling the material back onto itself at the corners. The lanterns, protected by their glass encasements, were flickering, the growing wind beginning to seep around the edges. 

Sam sneaked a glance at his brother. Dean had gone silent, his head beginning to nod as the wind tossed the loose grass and dirt around. Sam could see a light sheen of sweat glistening across his brother’s face, the dark stain on the makeshift bandage spreading. Sam’s concern inched up a notch, knowing the still bleeding wound was taking its toll on his brother’s legendary stamina.

Focusing back on the spell, he lifted the vial containing Castiel’s shimmering grace. He wished like hell Castiel was here now, not knowing – or caring – what had been more important than keeping his word. He realized Dean was right. They had to stop expecting Castiel to act like a human friend, like family. He wasn’t human, he was an angel, and Sam finally came to terms with the fact that the angel simply saw the needs of the world differently. He couldn’t hate the guy, but he couldn’t help but be disappointed, not only because of his own feelings of disillusionment, but because of what this final betrayal would do to Dean.

He knew, despite what Dean had confessed about Castiel, he was still trying to give the angel the benefit of the doubt. But even Dean’s loyalty could only stretch so far. Sam hated to see his brother disappointed again, knowing that he himself had been the one to shatter Dean’s illusions on more than one occasion. That was why, despite Dean’s wound, despite Castiel’s absence, they had to go through with this. Once the spell was complete, they would have time to regroup, bolster their defenses. It was a reprieve they desperately needed.

But first they had to make it through the next few minutes.

He carefully pulled the cork from the vial and tipped it above the cauldron, repeating the Enochian words as Cas’ grace washed over the other ingredients. A heat began to emanate from the bowl, the components of the mixture beginning to merge, forming a sizzling compound. He grabbed the remaining vial, letting the black smoke they’d taken from Abaddon sift into the concoction, watching as it began to bubble and pop like a thick stew. 

The Enochian chant tumbled once more from his lips as he reached for the glass bottle containing Dean’s blood. His eyes flashed to his brother, who was no longer upright, his body leaning back against the sleeping bag, his head lolling back and forth. He was barely conscious and Sam knew their time was running out.

He quickly counted out six drops of the blood, one for each of the ingredients and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, reciting the final words Metatron had written for them. As soon as he finished, he dropped the paper and stood, bolting across the short distance to his brother’s side. As his knees hit the ground, a blast of pressure hit him from behind, forcing him down. He twisted, throwing himself over his brother’s body, pushing them both onto the hard ground as a screaming gale of heated wind blew over them. The roar of the wind blotted out all other sound and Sam held his breath as the grass and loose dirt kicked up all around them. He thought he heard Crowley scream, but the sound was buried under a loud rumble that built to a crescendo, culminating in an ear-shattering boom.

………………………………..

Castiel tried to step back as Metatron moved closer, his eyes on the scribe’s face. He didn’t want to believe that this angel, the scribe who had bowed at the feet of their Father was capable of such treachery, but the gleam in Metatron’s eyes gave weight to the truth, and Castiel understood just how disturbed the older angel had become.

“You must stop before this goes too far,” Castiel tried to reason with the angel, although he suspected it was far too late. “You know this is not our Father’s will.”

“Shhh, Castiel. I want you to stop thinking about master plans, Heaven and angels, and all this. It doesn’t concern you anymore.”

He raised the angel sword and placed it alongside Castiel’s neck. 

“Your friends, the Winchesters, were so kind to listen to me. Their trust in you made it so much easier.”

“They were trying to save mankind. To send evil back where it belonged. Tell me you have not interfered with the spell.”

Metatron shook his head. “Of course not. Their spell will still do exactly what they’d hoped it would… with a few extra ramifications.”

Cas felt his fear for his friends rise. “If you have done anything to harm the Winchesters –“

“Oh relax, Castiel,” Meatron waved his free hand, his face contorting into a look of disdain. “I didn’t harm your precious humans. I merely added a couple elements to the spell to facilitate my own agenda.”

“To punish the angels,” Castiel concluded.

“Exactly,” the scribe smiled, pleased that his captive audience understood. “By adding an Archangel vessel’s blood and reciting a few extra words, not only will the demons be expelled back to Hell, but the angels will also be expelled.”

“But there are few angels on Earth,” Castiel pointed out, confused.

Meatron’s smile turned feral. “I’m not expelling them from Earth, Castiel. I’m expelling them from Heaven.”

A loud boom filled the air and Castiel could feel the ground beneath him begin to shake.

“Ah! Excellent!” Metatron clenched his fist in excitement. “They’ve completed the spell. Now, I only need one more thing.” He looked up at the captive angel. “This spell was never about the demons for me, Castiel. What I’m taking from you now – all of your essence, your grace – it’s the last ingredient.”

The blade moved, slicing a long, fine line into Castiel’s neck. A bright light began to pour out of the wound, flowing between the angels, captured in a vial Metatron held in his hand. As the flow of Castiel’s grace trickled to a stop, Metatron held a hand across the cut and the wound disappeared as if it had never been.

“And now something wonderful is going to happen, for me and for you. I want you to live this new life to the fullest. Find a wife, make babies. And when you die and your soul comes to Heaven, find me. Tell me your story.”

…………………………………

Sam moved his head, shaking the bangs from his eyes, searching the clearing for any sign of danger. The staccato thumping of his heart merged with the ringing in his ears, as his short, choppy breaths coursed through his throat. He swiveled his head, his wide eyes taking in the destruction of the clearing. 

The short, dead grass was matted down, pressing out from the center where the sheet containing the cauldron still lay. The low iron fence that surrounded the plot was in pieces, black rods strewn haphazardly across the cemetery. Sam was relieved to see the Impala still standing where they had parked her, grass, dirt and twigs stuck indiscriminately in her grill and headlights. At least she hadn’t sustained any real damage. Dean had just fixed the damage Meg had done to the car at Sucrocorp, God knows how pissed he would be –

“Dean!”

Sam hastily slid off the warm lump he had been lying on, his heart in his throat as he rolled his brother onto his back.

“Dean?”

The older man’s eyes were closed, his face scrunched up in pain. 

“You weigh a ton, dude.”

Sam huffed a laugh, relief bringing a smile to his face. “You’re welcome.”

Dean’s eyes cracked open, his brow furrowing in confusion. “For what? Squashing me with your giant sasquatch ass?” He made no attempt to move, simply looking up through slitted eyes at his brother’s grinning face.

Sam shook his head fondly, allowing himself to fall back to lie next to his brother. “Next time I’ll let the hurricane force wind blow your munchkin ass away.”

“Munchkin ass my… ass…” Dean mumbled. 

Sam snickered, pent up adrenaline making him giddy.

The silence of the summer evening surrounded them as they lay side by side, watching the stars twinkle in the night sky.

“You think it worked?”

Sam sighed. “I have no idea.”

“Well, neither one of us is dead,” Dean offered.

“Or in Hell,” Sam added. “Or Purgatory.”

“There’s that,” Dean agreed. “I’m calling it a win.” He raised his head, trying to see across his brother’s reclining chest. “Where’s Crowley?”

Sam turned his own head, his eyes quickly finding the demon’s crumpled meatsuit still lying inside the devil’s trap. “Huh,” he grunted in wonder. “The trap held.”

“Huh,” Dean repeated. “Guess we got lucky for once.”

With a groan, Sam pushed himself up, leaning to his right to get a better look at the grass free area the demon was imprisoned in. 

“Or not.” 

The trap had been broken, fragments of soil missing from a number of spots around the outside circle. If Crowley had been able to move, there would be nothing to stop him. Of course, the cuffs from the Men of Letters dungeon would render him powerless, so even if he was still a demon, he wouldn’t be much of a threat. But Sam didn’t want to consider that the spell didn’t work. As far as he was concerned, Crowley was toast, roasting back in Hell where he belonged, and the hunter was in no hurry to shatter that illusion.

A grunt from his left brought his attention back to Dean and Sam quickly shot a hand out to assist his stubborn brother as he attempted to pull himself back to a seated position. The older man groaned as he fell back against the sleeping back that had remained wedged between their bodies and the partial headstone it had cushioned. Dean’s breathing was harsh, his face pale. He used his good arm to pull the other onto his lap, rolling his eyes as Sam moved around him to get a better look at the blood soaked bandage. While Sam unwound the shirt from around his shoulder, Dean tilted his head, his eyes on Crowley’s unmoving form.

“Think we should check on him?”

Sam glanced back for a moment before returning his attention to his brother’s wound. “Why? You want to kiss his owies?”

Dean used his good hand to swat at his brother’s arm. “No, moron. I want to know if he’s still a demon.”

“Well, if he is, he’s not going anywhere thanks to those cuffs. And if he’s not…”

“He’s back in Hell where he belongs.” Dean concluded. He winced as Sam shifted his jacket and flannel shirt, the material catching on the edge of the wound. “Come on, Sam, aren’t you at least a little curious?”

With a sigh, Sam dropped his head. “Fine.” He refolded the bloody shirt and pressed it against his brother’s shoulder. He grabbed Dean’s free hand and lifted it, forcing it against the wound. “Hold that so you don’t bleed to death while I go check on the hopefully dead demon.”

Dean immediately let go of the shirt as Sam rose, reaching instead for the shotgun that lay to the right of the headstone. He tensed as Sam cautiously approached the devil’s trap, his jaw clenched, his eyes alert, ready for any kind of movement from the prone form.

Sam kneeled down and reached for Crowley’s shoulder, jumping back as the demon unexpectedly groaned and rolled onto his back. The chain between the demon cuffs clanked as Crowley brought both hands up to his face, staring at them in the moonlight. “What have you done?” he whispered, his voice low and hoarse. He turned his head, and Sam was surprised to find his eyes glistening with tears. “It’s gone. It’s all gone. You’ve ruined everything.”

Confused and more than a little shocked, Sam scuttled back to his brother, lowering himself to sit next to Dean’s wounded arm. “What the hell?”

“Exactly. What the hell?” Dean repeated, his voice soft with wonder. 

Sam tore his attention from the sobbing demon, the tone of his brother’s voice escalating his worry that the older man was finally succumbing to his injury. He turned, expecting to see Dean’s eyes closed as the pain and blood loss took its toll. Instead, he was surprised to see his brother’s eyes open wide, staring up into the night sky, enthralled. Sam followed his gaze and his breath caught in his throat.

Fire was raining down from the sky.

Hundreds of points of light were streaming down, falling from the heavens, lighting up the sky like a meteor shower. They were too far away to distinguish anything except the trails of fiery light they left in their wake, but Sam didn’t believe they were meteors. He didn’t believe they were natural at all.

He swallowed hard, a sudden thought jumping to the forefront of his mind. “Did we do that?” Sam asked, his voice hushed.

“No.”

Despite his condition, Dean’s reflexes were still on alert and he brought the shotgun up, taking deadly aim at the voice that responded from across the clearing.

A shadowy figure stood near the sheet, the disheveled trench coat billowing in the breeze. 

“Cas?” Dean frowned, unsure of how to react to the angel’s sudden appearance. Cas stood, his shoulders slumped, his head raised, eyes locked onto the lightshow above. It could have been the fact that his shoulder was beginning to throb relentlessly, or the fact that he’d lost enough blood to make his vision start to gray around the edges, but Dean was sure there was something in the angel’s demeanor that was changed. Something that was … different. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Castiel repeated, his voice flat, pained.

“What’s going on, Cas?” Sam asked, his eyes watching the fiery trails as they plummeted to earth. “What is that?”

“It’s the angels,” Castiel said, tears filling his eyes. “They’re falling.”

The End

And that’s it! As promised, we are right at the spot set to launch season 9 – with a few distinguishable differences, of course. Hopefully, Carver and Co. have learned a few things and figured out where they went wrong – but I’m not holding my breath. I am willing to give them a chance, but if they don’t reaffirm my passion in the first few episode, or if I spend more time rolling my eyes at continued contrived melodrama and unnecessary emo-angsting I will sadly have to bid the boys adieu and try to remember them fondly, the way they used to be before they were whittled down to caricatures of the former selves. I’d love to hear what you thought of my vision of what the season could have been. Thanks so much for reading!!


End file.
